The Disciples of Hephaestus
by TheMitmit
Summary: Ivan Athena Helmsman and his apprentice, Alfred Styx, are among the last followers of the Greek gods. However, all they get in return from the gods is mediocrity and a horrid car. T for strong language and a tiny bit of sexual themes...no, it is not slash


The Disciples of Hephaestus

The car was eroding before their eyes; paint chipped, bumpers gone, one window's glass lost long ago to an accident that involved a deer, a lamppost, and a compost heap. The car still carried the smell of horse dung. That, and the smell of the rotting sandwiches that littered the backseat, the old clothes, and the stuffed armadillo that was beginning to smell. However, Ivan Athena Helmsman didn't seem to mind; he considered it a cornucopia of life, which it certainly was, albeit a diseased sort of life. His apprentice, Alfred Styx, called it a haven for e coli.

They drove across the US, doing odd jobs here and there for food and other necessities—they lived in motels, much to Alfred's chagrin. He didn't consider it much of a life, but he had no choice. He was bound to Helmsman, a bond from the gods. They believed in the gods like one would believe in the sky; they were just there. Helmsman and Alfred had seen their miracles; road kill getting up again, a job suddenly becoming available after it had been filled. Every night they prayed, a different Greek god or goddess each day, so as not to piss them off. Athena was Helmsman's bane; she thought it was funny, a man having her name. He could tell. But he prayed to her anyway.

Alfred considered Helmsman's name a sign of his insanity. For Helmsman, to all wants and purposes, had lost touch with reality. The one psychiatrist Helmsman had seen had said so. Helmsman didn't think this was much of a problem; reality was fucked up anyway. But his delusions were strange; believing occasionally that he was possessed by demons. Alfred, however, wasn't sure this was a delusion or not. It seemed pretty damned convincing.

"Now, if I'm possessed, always remember not to believe what I say and tie me up with the rope that's in the trunk. You never know what I might do."

Sometimes he would howl, sometimes he would abuse poor Alfred with words—thank God Alfred always remembered to tie him up with that rope. If he didn't, Helmsman would claw at his own face till it was raw and bleeding; the scabs were awful. Occasionally, Alfred wondered if meds might help, if indeed Helmsman was not possessed. But Helmsman wouldn't take them, even if he were prescribed them. The only medicine he believed in was whiskey.

It was a winter day when they were driving through Los Angeles that Alfred brought it up. He burrowed into the front passenger seat, swathed in a blanket (the car had no AC or heat), and said:

"Athena, have you ever considered that you're a crazy motherfucker?"

Helmsman spit a wad of gum out the window. "I know I am. So?"

"So, what if you went on, you know, medicine?"

"That's expensive, we don't got the money."

"There's Medicaid," Alfred muttered. "We could get it."

"I don't believe in doctors. They fuck you up."

Alfred sighed and put his feet up on the dashboard. "What if your possessions aren't real?"

"They're real alright," Helmsman growled. "And don't you go sayin' they aren't."

Alfred sighed like the teenager that he was. "Fine. Go on being fucking weird."

They drove on in silence for a few miles before Helmsman turned on the radio to NPR. He may have been crazy as a loon, but he liked to keep informed on what was happening in the world. The monotonous tone of a news announcer droned through the speakers. Alfred found it pretty amazing they still worked.

"In other news, Hilary won West Virginia—"

"Damn women," Helmsman muttered. "Pretty soon they'll be taking over."

"Ever been with a woman, Athena?" Alfred sneered. "You seem to hate them more than a man should."

Helmsman ignored this and lowered the volume. "We got money for a paper?" Alfred grunted and opened the glove compartment, where wads of grubby bills were held together by rubber bands.

"Yup. We passed a Starbucks a few blocks back. They get the LA Times."

They were both suspicious of Starbucks. It was a culture they weren't apart of—the yuppie culture, cappuccinos, PDA's, laptops, and the next big screenwriters (or at least, they thought). But Helmsman liked a good cup of coffee, and every Starbucks was reliable to give you something decent. But he and Alfred stuck out like sore thumbs, in their layered clothing and unshaven faces.

Spreading a paper out on a table, they took a seat outside with their hot coffee and turned to the wanted section. It was amazing, what Helmsman could do. He was good with machines, computers too. Looking through the listings, he put his finger on a job for a computer technician.

"There. We got enough money to get my suit dry cleaned?"

"That suit is disgusting," Alfred muttered. "Get a new one, the Beverly Center is nearby."

"We got the money?"

"Yeah, I counted it. We got a thousand dollars. We can get a cheap one."

Helmsman grunted and folded up the paper. "The coffee's shit today. Must be a new barista."

"You sound like an idiot when you say that word."

"Shut up." Helmsman bit his lip, feeling his stubble with his fingers. "I need a shave. You do too, you look like a barbarian."

"And you look like a hobo."

"Why you gotta argue with me?"

"Because, you like it. Secretly, I mean," Alfred grinned. "It keeps you alert. Otherwise, you'd just go into that state you sometimes get."

Helmsman shrugged. It was true; sometimes, his mind would go completely blank. He'd be driving, and suddenly, for no reason at all, suddenly take his foot off the petal and let the car drift. Alfred had to be quick at grabbing the wheel.

"Jesus fucking Christ," he would shout. "What is with you?" These were the times when Alfred thought medication might be best.

Alfred often wondered what kind of childhood could produce a young man like Helmsman. Abuse, neglect, trauma? Sometimes he would have dreams of Helmsman's possible pasts—they were never happy.

Walking back to the car, Helmsman pulled out a cigarette from his cigarette case and lit it up with a match. He took a drag and blew out a smoke ring. He was pretty good at it.

"We need to find a motel," Helmsman muttered. "It's getting dark. Time to pray to Nike."

"Maybe she'll help us get you the job. But first we need to buy you the suit."

Helmsman looked in the mirror of the dressing room and adjusted his collar. If you ignored the ruffled brown hair and the unshaved chin, you might actually call him handsome in the black pinstripe suit Alfred had picked out.

"How is it?" Alfred called from outside the stall. "Good?"

"Looks fine. How much is it?"

"Hundred fifty. Now get a move on and stop looking at yourself."

They got some stares when they went to the register, pulling out wads of twenties from their pockets, some stained by substances that you didn't want to contemplate.

"Would you like a JC Penny's rewards card? You'll save ten percent." Helmsman gave the cashier a blank look.

"No," Alfred said quickly. "Thank you," he mumbled as an afterthought. Helmsman wasn't exactly the guru of manners that Alfred needed.

"Alright, suit. Now motel," Alfred sighed as they walked through the parking garage of the Beverly Center. "I think we passed one a ways back."

It was a small room, a TV and two beds taking up most of it. Helmsman took off his coat and threw it onto the bed. Alfred plopped down on one of the twin mattresses, not bothering to get undressed.

"Don't go to sleep, we still got work to do!" Helmsman said angrily, glaring at Alfred. "Get the candles ready."

It was a somber affair. Each knelt on the small amount of carpet, heads bowed, a candle in each hand, Alfred trying hard not to snicker. Helmsman was always very intense when it came to their prayer.

"Oh goddess of victory, Nike, please watch over us as we venture forth into the world of job hunting. We praise your name as we say, 'May our prayers bring you fruit, may our belief make you strong.' Amen." They sat in silence, Alfred trying hard to refrain from saying an insult unto Nike, whom he considered a bitch. For twenty minutes they knelt on that carpet, before Helmsman coughed.

"Well, that should do it." He got up and stretched. "I think I'll go to bed."

Alfred sighed and turned on the television to FOX, where a reporter was discussing how a girl had been kidnapped, raped, and then murdered, her body dumped on the side of the freeway. Helmsman tried to block it out as he undressed. Violence greatly disturbed him.

"Turn that off, I don't want to hear about that," he groaned, getting under the covers. "I need to sleep." Alfred gritted his teeth and turned off the television. He was actually interested.

Alfred lay on top of the covers, still in his clothes, and wondered if Helmsman would get the job. The gods and goddesses had an uncanny fondness for him, it seemed. And he was a pretty good computer technician. Yes, it was hard to believe, but the powers that be were on their side. But for some reason, they didn't seem to want them rich. This was something Alfred resented, though he didn't let this be known. The pantheon might get angry.

After a while, Alfred could hear Helmsman snoring. He wondered if he had allergies; every time they came to LA he seemed to get the sniffles.

"Ugh," Alfred moaned, placing a pillow over his head. "I can't stand this. SHUT UP!" Helmsman, a sound sleeper, merely rolled onto his side and continued sawing logs. Alfred ground his teeth, a bad habit of his.

"Fucking crazy bastard," he whispered to no one. "If it weren't for Hephaestus, I would have a normal life right now."

Alfred and Helmsman had met that year in an ER in Oklahoma City. Helmsman had been stabbed in the arm by a mugger. Alfred had stepped on a rusty nail that had gone clean through his sneaker and into his heel, and he cursed up a storm. Helmsman had taken one look at the cursing Alfred and said:

"I was supposed to meet you. I didn't think you'd be a whiny little bitch."

Alfred stared at him for a while before speaking.

"Who the fuck are you?"

"Ivan Athena Helmsman," Helmsman said, holding out his hand. Alfred merely looked at it.

"So? What are you supposed to be?"

"I am going to be your master, young apprentice. Hephaestus told me it would be so."

"He doesn't exist," Alfred said flatly.

"Yes he does. And you can't resist the will of the gods."

Alfred came out of the ER six hours later to find Helmsman leaning against his car in the parking lot, waiting for him.

"That took a long time."

"Get away from me, you crazy freak."

"I'll prove to you that Hephaestus called you to me. Watch." Helmsman took from his car a compact mirror that women usually carry around. "Look into this."

Alfred took the mirror reluctantly and looked into his reflection. Except it wasn't his. He was looking into the face of a dark skinned man, with black hair and dark eyes that had what seemed a perpetually sarcastic look.

"What the fuck?!"

"Don't talk like that to me," the reflection said. "I am a god and you're just an eighteen year old orphan. Now it has been preordained that you will live with this man, whether you like it or not. You two are destined for great things that are yet to come. Now get your stuff together tonight. You're going with him."

The reflection disappeared and Alfred was looking into his scared and startled face.

"Who are you?" he said shakily to Helmsman, who was scratching his head.

"I told you, Ivan Athena Helmsman. I am one of the last followers of the Greek pantheon. And they do exist."

Now, as Alfred lay listening to Helmsman snore, he was wishing he had never stepped on that nail. For if he left Helmsman, Hephaestus had said a terrible fate would befall him. Though he wasn't sure what could be worse than traveling the country with Ivan Athena Helmsman.

Alfred woke up the next morning to Helmsman making coffee from the coffee maker. He could hear the goo percolating to the sound of Helmsman humming tunelessly an old pop song from the '90's, something from 'N Sync. Alfred groaned and threw the pillow that had been shielding him from Helmsman's snores.

"Can you _not_ do that, Mr. Faggot?"

"Fuck you," Helmsman muttered, pouring them each a cup of coffee. He walked over and handed Alfred a cup. "Come on, we have to call about the interview."

It was an old phone, pink with a spiral cord. Helmsman dialed the number from the _LA Times_ and waited as the rings ringed tunelessly.

"Hello, Callahan Industries, how may I help you?"

"I'm calling about the ad in the Times," Helmsman said in the friendliest voice he could muster. "Is it still available?"

"Yes, would you like to schedule an interview? We could fit you in at one," the receptionist said cheerfully. This was lost on Helmsman. "Shall I schedule you?"

"Yes, that would be fine," he said. "I'll be there."

"Alrighty then, may I have your name?"

Helmsman took a deep breath before saying, "Ivan Athena Helmsman."

"Okay, I shall fit you in. Have a nice day!"

Helmsman put down the phone, wiping his nose on a sleeve as he did so. "What should we do now?"

Alfred sighed. "Want to go the LACMA? I know how you like that art shit."

Helmsman grunted. "I wouldn't call it shit."

"Whatever," Alfred muttered. "Come on, I'm going crazy in this room. It stinks."

Alfred found it strange that Helmsman had an affinity for art. He had had a year of college, studying engineering of all things, before he dropped out after spending a stint in a mental hospital, where he was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. Back then, when he was manic, he held the belief that demons were speaking to him through the television set in the dormitory common room. Helmsman would fall into deep depression when he came down after that. He was a classic case.

When Alfred found that out he was more than a little perturbed. Who was he living with? Sometimes Helmsman's whole personality would change. Alfred felt more like a babysitter than an apprentice. That was why they had to keep on moving—Helmsman couldn't hold down a job for long.

In the museum, Alfred was currently worrying whether Helmsman was catatonic. He stood, eyes wide, in front of a Kandinsky, the shapes and colors swirling before his awed eyes. Alfred sighed and poked Helmsman in the shoulder.

"Come on, I'm tired of this painting. Don't you want to see the little elevators in the other room?" Helmsman turned his head, looking at Alfred.

"This is what my life is about," he whispered. "I mean, _look_ at it." Alfred grudgingly looked at the painting; he had to admit, it was beautiful.

"I don't see it. You're not a triangle."

"Fuck, don't take it _literally!_ It reminds me of—never mind," he said, his face clouding. 'You don't need that in your head."

Alfred turned on his heel and walked into the other room, where the miniature elevators in the wall opened and closed with a little _ding!_ Helmsman walked behind him and patted Alfred on the head.

"You're young, and we've both gone through shit. But with the gods, it'll be made right."

Alfred doubted this, but he didn't say anything. Helmsman _believed,_ like the gods were a life preserver in that strange existence he called a mind. Alfred could see it—all those colors and shapes, chaotic and fascinating. And he wondered what shit Helmsman had gone through to make that mind.

"Hey Athena, tell me your shit, I want to know," Alfred said, poking Helmsman. "I don't think you can phase me much."

Helmsman shrugged. "Alright. Let's go get something to eat."

Outside in the café Helmsman nursed a cup of coffee. Alfred sat, staring as Helmsman sighed and said:

"I was born in LA twenty-two years ago. My father was a sculptor, my mother was a nurse." Helmsman took a sip of his coffee. "Sure you want to hear this?"

"Yes already, Jesus Christ!" Alfred growled. "I wouldn't have asked if I didn't want to know."

Helmsman sighed. "My mother was gone most of the time, so I was pretty much raised by my dad. We were alone a lot—I was home schooled." He scratched his chin.

"Well" Helmsman gave a ragged sigh, his eyes darting to the tabletop. "I thought it was strange at the time, but I loved my father and didn't question him. I wasn't taught to. And…you really want to hear this?"

At this point, Alfred wasn't quite sure. He knew where this was going, and he was already feeling the rage at Helmsman's father. Alfred hadn't quite realized how much he had come to care for Helmsman.

"Yes," he said. Helmsman shrugged and held his chin in his hands.

"Well, he started…It went on until I was thirteen, when I called the police one night. They took him into custody, and he was found guilty. I never saw him again." Helmsman gave Alfred a blank expression.

"So, are you happy you know now?"

"No! Fuck, I would kill him if I could!"

Helmsman smiled and took a sip of his coffee. "Didn't know you liked me that much."

"Shit I like you, you're the closest thing I have to family!" Alfred could already feel his throat clench. "I hope he gets tortured in prison!" Alfred crossed his arms and stared at Helmsman, who was rooting around in his pocket for his cigarette case.

"Been there, done that. You don't think I wished for that? Now where are my cigarettes?" Helmsman wrenched the case out of his pocket and took out a cigarette. "You wanted to know."

"Christ, usually it's something normal, not that!"

Helmsman sniggered. "You thought it was going to be something normal?"

"Well—" Alfred wiped away a tear trying to get free. "I didn't think it would be that bad."

Helmsman blew a smoke ring, staring into Alfred's face. "Al, are you crying?"

"No, shut up!"

"Yes you are. It's over—"

"No it's not!" Alfred whispered fiercely. "We go from town to town because you can't keep it together long enough to hold down a job! Athena, we live in a car and spend the nights praying to Greek gods, you call that over?!"

Helmsman stared at his cigarette. "But the gods—"

"What have the gods really done for you? They've done nothing but keep you sick, that's what they've done! They're, what are they called, 'enablers!' If you had just stayed in school and not listened to them, you would be living a normal life right now!"

"But they keep me sane—don't interrupt me!" Helmsman pointed an accusing cigarette at Alfred. "Have you been talking to someone?"

"No, Christ! I'm just worried about you, man! And that therapist the other day came up to _me_, okay? I didn't go up to _her_."

Helmsman leaned back in his chair and looked up grimly at the sky. "Am I that much of a nutcase that therapists diagnose me off the street?"

Alfred shook his head. "I hate to say it, man, but you're that guy."

"Thanks," Helmsman grumbled, grinding his cigarette into the ground with a heel. "But that damn hospital can do without me."

Alfred glanced at his watch. "Athena, we should get going. And I wished you hadn't smoked that cigarette, now you're gonna smell."

Helmsman got up and threw out his coffee cup. Alfred followed worriedly behind him, the hairs prickling at the top of his neck. In Helmsman's eyes he saw that deadened gaze, that soulless vapidity that came with depression. Alfred was really beginning to wish he had never asked.

"I'm sorry, Athena," he said as they walked towards the car in the November sun. Helmsman gave Alfred a glance with an unaccustomed clarity.

"It's not like I didn't believe them when they said I was bipolar," he muttered. "It's just I don't want to lose who I am. You understand?"

"Yeah, I understand, Athena," Alfred said, closing the car door after him. "Now let's practice our interview skills."

It was a small, light waiting room, with green shades and a coffee table full of glossy magazines. Alfred sat on an overstuffed couch, leafing through a magazine on the human embryo. Helmsman had gone into the office with a stern looking young woman twenty minutes ago. She hadn't seemed to take too kindly to Alfred; maybe that was because he had knocked over the potted plant in the corner.

Alfred sighed. There was a claustrophobic quiet about the room that he didn't like. He sipped tea from a Styrofoam cup that the secretary had given him and flipped back another page.

"So this is what I looked like eighteen years ago?" he muttered. "Huh." Alfred looked up; faint noises could be heard coming from the office door. He put the magazine down.

"Thank you for your time."

"Not at all. Would you care for some coffee on your way out?"

"No thanks."

The door shut. Alfred caught a deflated Helmsman's gaze.

"Didn't go well?"

"Looks like our prayer didn't get through," Helmsman muttered. "She didn't seem interested at all."

"I thought she looked like a bitch," Alfred said under his breath as they walked through the front door to the parking lot. "Stick up her ass."

"Didn't much like me either." Helmsman sniffed. "Want to get something to eat?"

"Should we?" Alfred looked at Helmsman uncertainly. "We don't have much—"

"We're praying to Hephaestus tonight. He likes me. We'll get a job. Now if it weren't for you I could get us in somewhere nice with this suit."

Alfred grimaced and gave Helmsman the finger before getting in the front seat of the car. "Fuck you, Athena." Helmsman rolled his eyes.

"In Al-speak, that means okay?"

"...Yeah," Alfred said as Helmsman turned on the ignition and switched on the radio. The sounds of The Beatles wafted through the mesh of the speakers.

"Athena, you ever get the feeling you're moving backward?"

Helmsman clucked his tongue. "You know, I don't really think of life that way. I think life is what comes at me. I'm like the batter at a baseball game." He scratched his head. "I'll hit back everything that comes."

"What about a _normal_ life?" Alfred said. Helmsman gave him a glance.

"What about it? Shit, I'm not _meant_ for a normal life! I've got gods banging on my door, and evil spirits—"

"—Which might night be real—"

"—Which _are_ real," Helmsman growled. "There you go again!" There was a silence as Paul McCartney took center stage. The speedometer ticked away merrily. "It's getting better since you've been mine!" the song crooned. Alfred's eyes swiveled towards Helmsman's brooding face. "Think this song is about us?"

Helmsman gave Alfred a Look. Alfred tapped his fingers out on his knee in a staccato fashion.

"I'm going to be leaving you someday, Athena, we both know it. What'll you do then?"

Helmsman gave a caustic laugh.

"Who knows, I'll be dead!" Alfred raised his eyebrows.

"No, you'll be in an institution. _I'll_ be dead."

"Right," Helmsman said, pulling his cigarette case out of his pocket, "And I'm John Maynard Keynes."

THE END


End file.
